


The Leman's Alphabet

by Fudgyokra



Category: South Park
Genre: (In like...one chapter), Aged-Up Character(s), Alphabet, Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Love, M/M, Multi, Oneshot collection, Romance, Suspense, Too many themes can't remember them all lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-six oneshots for Stary, Clebe, and Gregstophe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abatjour

**Author's Note:**

> This was created for three reasons: 1) I was bored one day at 3 a.m. 2) I've always wanted to do an ABC-themed chapter fic. 3) I felt like trying my hand at some couples I don't normally write for. This chapter is Clebe, the next Stary, then Gregstophe; it continues in that pattern throughout the story.
> 
> I used The Phrontistery as inspiration. I found each chapter's word and its definition on that site. So, after much stalling on my part, I bring to you The Leman's Alphabet!

_Written 8/30/13 through 2/21/14_

_**Abatjour:** _ _Skylight or device to direct light into a room._

[Clyde & Bebe]

Clyde took delight in rare miracles. Living in South Park meant that miracles were hard to come by, anyway, but he was supremely blessed with the rarest of them in two separate forms now, as he stood not ten inches away from the gaping mouth of a great white shark, only divided from its glinting teeth by a pane of specially-made glass.

The aquarium itself was nice, but the first miracle wasn't so much the location as the emptiness of it. For once, Clyde thought, living in a small mountain town had its benefits. There weren't many people to bother him—only a lone female tourist, then Wendy and Stan, who, thankfully, were quiet and kept to themselves, bypassing Clyde without a second glance and focusing instead on swinging their joined hands between them. He was able to stand there in blissful silence, bathed in a blueish light from the water on the other side of the glass.

Though the silence was broken some moments later, he wasn't bothered. In fact, the voice that had drifted through the air was from his other miracle, a girl named Bebe. She asked him if he'd seen the smaller shark in the back of the tank; he shook his head, moving so that he was at her side.

She grinned and pointed the shark out to him, then wandered down the dimly lit hall with the accompanying sound of clicking heels.

Clyde watched her with a fond smile as he followed, enamored more by the way the sun shining through skylight above them made her hair glow gold than by the marine life he had actually come to see.

When he sighed, Bebe turned around to grab his hand and ask him what the matter was. The only thought that occupied his brain was to lean down and kiss her, so that was exactly what he did, only pulling away for a brief moment to murmur the answer to her question against her lips.

Satisfied that there wasn't anything wrong, Bebe wound her arms around his neck and jerked him down a bit, earning a startled grunt from the brunette when their lips met with more force than before. She didn't seem perturbed by this, so Clyde simply settled his hands on her hips and followed the movement of her mouth.

He thanked God for his favorite miracle, who, his subconscious reminded him—as if he'd forgotten for a second—was the most breathtaking girl that ever did stand beneath the skylight's offering of muted sunbeams.


	2. Baisemain

 

_**Baisemain:** _ _Kiss on the hand._

[Stan & Gary]

The day Gary moved to South Park, Stan was frustrated, to say the least. He hadn't liked the unctuous nature of the blond, and he certainly hadn't liked the weird feeling that he got in his chest whenever said blond was around. It made him feel sick to his stomach, too, which was absolutely irritating in more ways than one. Yet he still felt oddly disappointed when the boy moved away some months later.

In retrospect, the signs should've alerted him to what was going on. Instead, it hit him all at once, nine years later on the sidewalk outside Tom's Rhinoplasty. Literally hit him, in fact. He only had enough time to register a vaguely familiar set of brown eyes and a well-managed shock of blond hair before the owner of those annoyingly attractive attributes rammed into his chest, effectively knocking him backward onto the cement below. Luckily, he'd been wearing his backpack, so his head avoided collision with the sidewalk, but there was still the matter of the boy currently on top of him to deal with.

Stan allowed himself the time to groan theatrically (it was only to gain an apology; he played football and was therefore used to being tackled) before he slowly propped himself up on his now-bloodied elbows to get a better look at the perpetrator.

The blond in his lap shot to a standing position so quickly that Stan's eyes blurred when they followed the movement. "So sorry! Terribly sorry!" That voice was way too familiar…

It took him a moment to pull the memory from the dark recesses of his brain, but once he had done so, he leapt to his feet as well, ignoring the sharp jab of pain in his backside. " _Gary Harrison_?"

"Yes, and I really am very s…! Well, fancy that. You remember me! Stanley Marsh, am I right? I remember you quite well, too."

Stan really didn't want to put it in the blond's head that he remembered him 'quite well,' so he mumbled a quick, "I, uh, sorta remember, yeah."

Gary surprised him by laughing. "Oh, Stanley—Stan, if I may be so rude…" Stan swallowed an odd lump in his throat and nodded. "Ah, don't be so hard on yourself, Stan. I know for a fact your memory is exceptional! You remember me, all right. You were so smitten back then that I swore you'd get ill on me one evening!" Again, he laughed, and Stan's face colored darkly.

" _Smitten_? Listen, dude, I sure as  _fuck_  didn't have a thing for you. Not then, not now."

"Of course you don't  _now_. Why would you point that out? The Mormon cocked his head suspiciously, then straightened up again the same instant a sly smile blossomed on his face. "Oh, Stan."

"Stop saying my name so much. It's creepy." Stan was feeling more uncomfortable (and queasy) by the second.

"Can do. I'm sure we can come up with a proper nickname at a later time, anyway." Gary reached into his pocket and withdrew a pen before he grabbed the noirette's wrist. Stan didn't know why he let him do so, nor did he know why he stood perfectly still—held his breath, even—whilst Gary wrote something on his hand in immaculate script, punctuating it with his phone number and following that up with a light, fluttering kiss on Stan's knuckles.

"There." The blond recapped the pen, deposited it back in the pocket of his slacks, and flashed the other boy what was quite possibly the most dashing smile he'd ever seen in his eighteen-year-old life. "I expect a call, Stan Marsh. Don't let me down." And with that, Gary was gone, brushing shoulders with a very red-faced Stan as he departed in the direction from which the noirette had come.

He stared at his hand, rereading the words "Call me sometime" until his eyes were sore and he was suddenly aware of the stinging in his elbows again, then quietly continued down the sidewalk.

He supposed it wouldn't hurt to call.


	3. Cacoepy

_**Cacoepy:** _ _Poor or wrong pronunciation._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"All right, say it with me, Chris: Am-bih- _dext_ -struss. Ambidextrous."

"Ahm-bee- _dext_ -striss. Ambidextrous."

"No, that's not—not quite right."

"Fuck this! I do not want to learn your stupid English pronunciation."

"You pronounced 'pronunciation' right. I have confidence in your ability to master the English accent."

"I do not like the English accent."

"At least I'm not trying to teach you the American accent."

"There isn't only one American accent, stupid."

"Point taken; likewise, there isn't just one English accent."

"…Your point is also taken. But I still do not care to learn your shitty manner of speech."

" _Shitty_."

"That's what I said."

" _That's_. With a 'th' sound."

"Is what I said!"

"Now you aren't even being grammatically correct, Christophe."

"Fuck grammar. Fuck you, too, Gregory."

"Not until you at least learn how to properly say 'ambidextrous.'"

" _Why_? That is one of the most useless words I have ever had the displeasure of learning."

"You say the word 'learning' oddly."

"I will see that you are crying on the floor oddly if you do not stop criticizing my accent."

"This was your dumb idea in the first place."

"It was not!"

" _It_ , soft 'I' sound. And  _was_."

"That's what I fucking said, you ass-faced cock rammer!"

"Now you're just being immature."

"I am not being immature, you are being immature."

"Soft 'I.'"

" _Imma-fucking-ture._ Immature!"

"Chris!"

"Forget it, I have had enough of—"

"No, I mean, you've pronounced immature correctly!"

"What?"

"Yes, you have!"

"Tch… Of course I have. It's not that hard, you are just a moron."

"Well, I'm proud of you."

"… _Merci_."

" _De rien_."

"Mm, Gregory?"

"Yes, love?"

"You pronounced ' _rien_ ' wrong."

"Oh, shut up, you tosser."


	4. Depaysé

_**Depaysé:** _ _Out of one's element or natural environment._

[Clyde & Bebe]

If anyone saw the two of them—a petite, dress-clad blonde in the company of a stout brunette, who was still dressed in his school's football jersey—in their current standing position, they wouldn't be likely to think anything of it. Upon closer inspection, however, they might assume that the male of the couple was about to be violently ill; to him, it sure felt that way.

"I'm not sure this is a place where I'd fit in," the boy muttered, trying to avoid catching the eyes of the employees in the shop they were loitering in front of. "It's not quite my speed, if you know what I mean."

"It's okay, Clyde." Bebe's voice was warm and soothing, and Clyde wanted to give in, to believe her, but, despite her words, the situation in which he'd found himself did not feel okay to him. They currently stood outside a beauty parlor in the town's mall at the height of the teenage influx, one of them with eyebrows knitted together in a pleading manner, the other praying to every god he could think of that none of his friends would see him there.

"All right," he assented after some time, throwing a grimace in the parlor's direction, "but if anyone—especially the guys on the team—find me, we tell 'em I lost a bet with Token, okay? Token's a bro, he'll cover for me."

Bebe put her hands on her hips. "Are you trying to say there's something wrong with a guy going to a salon?"

"No! It's just, uh, the football players like to pick on each other and this is like fuel for the fire, ya know?"

The girl huffed, moving her hands from her hips to her forearms in exasperation. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I just thought it'd be something fun for us to do together."

There was a brief pause, then Clyde replied with, "Really? Cool, then. Let's not." Bebe rolled her eyes in an effort to look annoyed, but the brunette saw the way her shoulders slumped in disappointment and he groaned. "Okay, forget I said anything. I'll do it."

Instantly, her hands were on his forearm, squeezing with such fervor that Clyde worried it would bruise. Damn, Bebe was strong for such a small girl. Or maybe he bruised easily. He didn't have time to think about this before he was yanked into the salon and thrust into the nearest chair.

"Well," he began lightly, smiling for his girlfriend's sake, "um…this is a comfy chair."

The blonde giggled, and suddenly Clyde felt a lot better about the situation. That was enough to get him through an entire forty minutes of hair dyeing and twenty more spent on a manicure-pedicure, and, in all actuality, it wasn't all that bad.

Bebe left the salon with newly frosted curls, French-tipped nails, and a smug look on her face. "See, that wasn't bad!"

"My hair is, like, super fuckin' soft now," was Clyde's way of agreeing.

The girl laughed through her nose, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a picture of the other while he was admiring his nails.

"Oh, God, c'mon, Bebe. You got me at the worst possible time."

"You still worried about looking 'girly'?"

"Shit, nah. I mean, you should get a picture where you can actually see my nails. See, like this." Presently, he held his hands up in front of his face and grinned, prompting Bebe to erupt into a fit of laughter.

"I'm glad you had fun," she managed to breathe out, snapping another picture with a slightly blurrier outcome due to her shaking hands.

"Glad I got to have fun with you."

At that, the cheerleader scoffed, punctuating this with a playful smack to Clyde's arm. Despite this, she responded with a smile and a cheerful, "Me, too."


	5. Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I couldn't resist such a beautiful word. Also, I can't publish this in peace without pointing out that I am aware the ending is grammatically incorrect, lol. It was purposeful.

_**Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious:** _ _Good._

[Stan & Gary]

"Stan! Stan. Oh, Staaaan?"

" _What_ , Gary?"

"I need help with this boyfriend test!"

Every fiber of Stan's being told him not to look up, to stick to his book and pretend he'd never heard the words "boyfriend test" come out of Gary Harrison's mouth. But, of course, the noirette had an amazing penchant for ignoring his brain; he looked up.

A few feet away from the couch Stan was sitting on, Gary stood with some brightly-colored pop culture magazine in his hands, folded to the page with the offending quiz on it. "You just have to answer a few questions for me, please. I want to see if I'm a good boyfriend."

Stan raised an eyebrow and set his book down in his lap. "Of course you're a good boyfriend, dude. If you weren't, I wouldn't be, ya know,  _dating_ you."

"I just want to make sure." Those words were spoken in such a small, unsure voice so uncharacteristic of Gary that Stan was plagued with a strong sense of guilt for no particular reason.

"Yeah, okay! No problem, man. Go ahead and read the questions."

The blond perked up. Stan huffed a sigh as he sank low in his seat.

"First question," the former began brightly. "'How good is your boyfriend at remembering important dates? Example: Your anniversary, your birthday, etc.'"

"Uhh…good," Stan answered awkwardly, not exactly sure what to say. Gary didn't seem to mind, though, and he scribbled down what the other boy guessed was his lame response.

"Question two. 'How good is your boyfriend at communicating his feelings?'"

"Good…"

"All right. Three. 'Describe your boyfriend in one word.'"

Without putting any actual thought into it, Stan blurted, "Good," before he could stop himself.

"Four. 'How well does your boyfriend get along with your friends?'"

Here, Stan hesitated, contemplating whether or not he should tell the truth. His friends didn't like Gary too much, to be honest. They found him annoying. But should Stan tell him that? When he was still without a decision ten seconds later, he decided on replying with, "What does that matter? It's not like you're banging my friends. Why would getting along with them make you any less or any more of a good boyfriend?"

He expected the Mormon boy to demand a real answer, but, surprisingly, Gary seemed to be scribbling those words down in response.

"All right, that was it."

"That was it? You're gonna base your aptitude for being a good boyfriend based on four questions from a teen magazine?"

Gary bobbed his head in an occupied nod at first, but the question finally registered a few seconds later. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"Yeah…"

The blonde shrugged, flipping to the next page without a second thought. A moment passed in silence between them, and Stan hated the fact that the next words out of his mouth were, "So, how did I do?"

Gary looked up at him and smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "Good, Stan. You did good."


	6. Fandango

_**Fandango:** _ _Lively Spanish dance performed by a couple._

[Gregory & Christophe]

The air was tense, thickened by the bouts of hard concentration emanating from the two men in the room. These men swept across the lacquered wooden floor in smooth strides and spins, sharing only hissed insults every so often in voices just loud enough to rise above the soaring notes of the music they danced to.

"You stepped too soon," Gregory chided.

"You went the wrong way," Christophe returned, emphasizing his point by jerking them into a spin heading the opposition direction.

The blond grumbled something under his breath about over-controlling Frenchmen; Christophe picked up on it and cursed at him in answer, though this drew nothing but a smirk from the Brit.

"Closer," the latter demanded harshly. "You're too far away."

With a dramatic flair, Christophe tugged Gregory against his chest and spun them again, moving his hips in careful, calculated movements dangerously close to the other man's. Gregory returned the steps with the same level of practiced skill, laughing when this proved frustrating for the Frenchman.

"I'm supposed to be better at this than you!" Christophe snapped, nearly spinning them into a wall in his distracted burst of irritation. "I've been doing it for a longer period of time, damn it!"

"What can I say?" Gregory grinned, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "It's impossible to catch me off guard, even when it comes to dancing."

Christophe's eyes narrowed into slits, then widened again with an accompanying bark of laughter. "Oh?"

"Why, yes! You, of all people, would never be able—"

In the midst of the Brit's boasting, Christophe disregarded their timed steps to dip Gregory, holding him just inches above the floor. He'd meant it to be a way of startling the other, and, while it did work, the music they'd been playing abruptly ended at that exact moment, turning Christophe's moment of victory into nothing more than a very awkward position. He found himself standing in complete silence with Gregory in his arms, staring up at him with wide eyes and his arms still around the brunette's neck, his hands clutching tightly at the back of the other's shirt.

"This is…awkward," Christophe muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"You're telling me." As this was spoken, the blond's grip on the Frenchman's shirt went lax, and it took Christophe a moment to realize that Gregory had moved his left hand to tangle in his hair, and the other had settled on his forearm.

"You're making it worse!" Christophe nearly shrieked this accusation and came close to dropping Gregory altogether. "Get your fucking hand off my fucking arm."

"All right," the Brit agreed, pressing the aforementioned hand to the other's chest instead and offering a challenging smile.

" _What_  are you doing?"

"I told you, I'm never caught off guard. I'm getting you back."

"Getting me back, huh? Well then, what do you say we take this challenge elsewhere?"

"I'd be delighted."


	7. Gemmate

_**Gemmate:** _ _To deck with gems._

[Clyde & Bebe]

He notices her on the playground for the first time in second grade, and he remembers thinking that she is the prettiest girl he's ever seen, with her two front teeth missing and her curly hair tied in pigtails at each temple. And it takes him a while, but he finally musters up the courage to say hello, which was something he was always glad he'd done.

They are in eighth grade when Bebe kisses him for the first time. Clyde recalls a feeling in his stomach that made him feel a little funny, which leads him to subconsciously wonder if he's going to get sick on her like Stan did with Wendy. He hopes he doesn't, and through a year of hand-holding, soft kisses, and whispered compliments, he's pleased to know that he isn't Stan Marsh, and he does not get sick on his blonde companion, not once.

Though they were never officially dating, it still hurts him when she runs off with Kyle in the ninth grade. He doesn't know why the redhead would interest her, because, after all,  _he_  makes her laugh, and all Kyle does is fret about how he doesn't want to kiss her because he's afraid to, since he went and kissed Lola the year before and had his heart broken. She still dates him until tenth grade, but by the time they break up he still hasn't kissed her, and maybe Clyde is just a tiny bit relieved by that.

He finally asks her out by the fence surrounding the empty park when they are both eighteen, earning a smile that twinkles in the moonlight just like the diamonds in her ears do—perhaps even brighter than that. All Clyde knows is that he could buy her all the gems in the world, but they still wouldn't sparkle in the same way that lovely smile of hers did.

He does, however, buy her a gem: A clear, gleaming diamond ring when they are twenty-four, which he gets down on one knee to present to her. When she says yes, there are tears in her eyes; when he carefully slides the ring into her finger, they are no longer just in her eyes, but on her cheeks as well. She hugs him tightly, and then flashes him that beautiful, beautiful smile that would always be prettier to Clyde than diamonds.

 


	8. Haptotrophic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haptotrophic usually pertains to plants, hahaha. Oh, well.

_**Haptotrophic:** _ _Curving in response to touch._

[Stan & Gary]

"You're beautiful," Stan breathed. He ran a hand through Gary's hair.

The latter responded with a smile. "As are you. Moreso than I." He lightly gripped the other's chin and pulled him into a kiss before Stan could argue.

Both boys were curled on Gary's sofa, reveling in the temporary absence of the Harrison family, all of whom had gone grocery shopping just ten minutes beforehand. It was rare that Gary was left home alone, so the impetus to invite Stan over was the first one he felt, as well as the first one he followed. It was another rarity for Gary to blindly follow his impulses, as he was one to consider his options at length before making a decision, but, then again, his boyfriend was quite the opposite, and perhaps that mindset was beginning to rub off on him.

Exhibit A, the blond mentally noted, was that he was the one with his hands all over the other boy, when it was usually Stan that got touchy-feely first. Stan didn't seem to mind, however, if his small sighs and grunts against Gary's mouth were anything to go by. The latter could only imagine what kind of fit his parents would pitch if they knew what he was doing, and the thought very nearly made him laugh in the middle of his and Stan's kiss.

Luckily he refrained from doing so, though the way Stan's back was arching under Gary's touch was quickly destroying any sort of composure he held. But, of course, he would try to maintain his self-discipline and ignore the fact that more than just Stan's mannerisms were currently rubbing off on him. That was the plan, but the moment he pulled away from their kiss and withdrew his hands, his name left the noirette's mouth in the form of an urgent murmur.

Self-discipline be damned. Soon enough, he'd pushed Stan backward onto the couch, and the last thing he remembered thinking coherently was that he rather enjoyed the way his companion's spine curved just the slightest bit when Gary's fingers skimmed it.

 


	9. Inaurate

_**Inaurate:** _ _Gilded; golden._

[Gregory & Christophe]

Christophe never realized it—or, rather, he'd never dwelled on the thought once he _had_  realized it—but Gregory was the quintessence of peace when he slept. This wasn't true of him while he was awake, of course, for he was as fiery, opinionated, and action-oriented as they came was when he was alert enough to present himself as such. He rivaled even Christophe in that sense, which the Frenchman would never admit aloud. But when he was sleeping, he was what one might call an angel if they felt inclined to (Christophe told himself he didn't, but that was a lie.)

The dark-haired male stirred underneath the white sheets of his bed to prop himself up on one elbow, then cast a begrudging stare at the alarm clock sitting on the end table beside Gregory's half of the bed. He'd have to see the Brit off in about ten minutes, lest his mother come home to catch her son in bed with some boy she didn't know, yet he couldn't bring himself to disturb him.

Unlike himself, Gregory slept in one position throughout the night. He still had his arm outstretched from where he'd draped it over Christophe's waist, even though the latter had long since moved from that position (and was decently surprised he didn't roll back over onto the limb), and his legs remained in the same position they'd been in when the duo had fallen asleep—almost completely straight, with the knees crooked the slightest bit. He'd even been lying with his hand under his cheek all night, which the Frenchman bet would ache like a bitch when he finally decided to wake up. (To be fair, his hand wasn't the only thing that would be aching, Christophe thought, a smirk drawing one corner of his mouth upward.)

The thing that caught him most off guard, however, was how Gregory's hair appeared to be tangible gold. Since he was lying on his side, facing away from the widow, the recently-awoken sun was able to peer through the sloping blinds and highlight each strand of blond so they practically glowed. Even the sweeping curl that had fallen across the teen's closed eyes seemed brighter, giving Christophe a rather warm feeling in his chest that he was too groggy to be properly disgusted by.

Without thinking about it, he reached over and tucked that errant curl back into its proper place behind Gregory's ear, which marked the exact moment the blond opened his eyes.

"Good m—"

"Shut the fuck up," Christophe hissed, mortified by what he'd been caught doing. He refused to admit to himself that his face had heated to a considerably dark red color, but it was a detail he couldn't exactly prove false.

Gregory had the nerve to laugh, and Christophe's stupid inner self had the nerve to find the sound pretty.

"Thank you for the lovely greeting, Chris." The Brit turned and sat up, allowing the sheets to bunch around his bare hips before he stretched his arms above his head. "Mmmmgh… Goodness, what time is it?"

"Time for you to leave." Christophe had meant to grumble it, but it came out as more of a reluctant notification.

"Oh, that's a shame." Still smiling, Gregory plopped back down onto his pillow and rolled onto his side again to catch the other's lips in a kiss. "I'll see you again sometime soon, yes?"

The Frenchman blinked, turned his head away to scoff, then looked back. "Yeah, whatever."

"Fantastic." With that, the Brit hopped up to get dressed, wincing in the process and putting the self-satisfied smirk back on the other's face. "See you later, dear," he practically cooed upon finishing, throwing a wink in Christophe's direction before disappearing from sight.

 


	10. Jumbal

_**Jumbal:** _ _Thin, crisp, sweet cake._

[Clyde & Bebe]

Bebe had to admit, just from watching the way Clyde worked among bowls of eggs and flour, piles of dough, and sheets of wax paper, it was evident that he was a brilliant baker. She knew that his mother had been a good cook, but the boy never confided in her that he was, too—until today, anyway. In fact, she had been under the impression that it pained him to talk about anything relating to his mother, but he didn't seem too upset at the moment.

Currently, he was rolling dough for some kind of miniature cake that Bebe had never known existed, and he spoke of Misses Donovan with a smile, even laughing sometimes when he would recall some of the stupid things they'd argued about in the past.

"Toilet seats, of all the things to get on my case about," he murmured with a shake of his head. "And, I mean, I was  _ten_ , for Christ's sake." At that, a smile of fond remembrance quirked his lips upward; he heaved a sigh and returned his attention to the pieces of dough he was now forming into something resembling flat doughnuts. "Next month'll be the sixth anniversary of her death."

Bebe lowered her gaze to the countertop and began tracing invisible patterns on it. "Are you guys going to visit her grave?"

"Yeah." There was a short stretch of silence, which was eventually marred by the scraping of the cookie sheet going into the oven and then persisted for a moment longer before Clyde broke it with a question. "Did you want to come?"

"What?" Bebe's head shot up; she regarded her boyfriend with wide eyes. "Me? But, I mean, that's a pretty special event. I don't know if I…"

"If you…?"

"If I would be welcome."

Clyde smiled warmly at her, and all at once she remembered why she liked him so much—he made her amazingly, undeniably happy when she least expected it.

"Of course you would be, Bebe." He reached across the counter that divided them between kitchen and dining room to lay his hand over hers. "Mom would've loved you."

Without realizing it at first, the blond began to tear up a bit. With a sniffle and a brief laugh, she replied, "I bet I would've loved her, too, Clyde."

 


	11. Kouros

_**Kouros:** _ _Statue of a nude male._

[Stan & Gary]

All day, Stan had been good about containing his laughter. He'd gone to a local thrift store earlier that afternoon, caught sight of a very  _intriguing_  plastic statuette, and managed to remain completely calm as he bought it; he was able to set it up in his living room without a single chuckle; he had even faced Kyle's reaction to it with a completely serious expression when the redhead visited his and Gary's shared apartment. Not one peal of laughter had escaped until exactly ten seconds ago, when his blond roommate took one step into their apartment, caught sight of the statue, and stopped in his tracks.

"Stan?"

"Yeah, dude?"

"Pardon me, but…what is  _that?_ "

That, coupled with the look on Gary's face, finally got Stan to lose his composure. He was gripping his sides, practically wheezing, and the entire time the Mormon simply stood there in the doorway, keys in hand, staring with narrowed eyes at the naked Morgan Freeman that now adorned one of their end tables.

"Where did you even get that?"

"The thrift store up the street," Stan managed to choke out before he collapsed on the couch. "Don't you love it?" The long pause that followed had the dark-haired boy laughing even harder. " _I_ love it."

To his surprise, the other flashed him a sweet smile. "I'm glad you like it so much, Stan, because you're sleeping out here with it tonight."

All at once, Stan's laughter quieted to nervous chuckles. "Hey, wait a second, man. It was just a joke."

Gary ignored him in favor of closing the front door and then heading into their shared bedroom, locking it behind himself.

"Gary? Come on, Gary!" Still, no response.

Stan looked at the Morgan Freeman statue, this time with a drawn-out sigh. "Well, shit."

 


	12. Leman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters preceding this are between 200 and 700 words, but this one got out of hand quickly, so it's the first to be well over 1000. But it's the titular chapter, so I figured it didn't matter too much if it sort of stuck out.

_**Leman:** _ _A lover, sweetheart, or paramour._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"Say it again." The first time Gregory heard those words from his partner, they had been issued as a demand—hasty, quiet, and bordering on desperate. The duo had been occupied not too long ago, but in the seconds just before those words were uttered, they were a calm, content tangle of limbs underneath cotton bed sheets, and Gregory had only just spoken three jarring words of his own.

" _I love you._ " It had been said so easily, yet it was the first time either of them had tasted those particular words in their mouth.

The blond had the decency not to laugh at Christophe's almost panicked expression, but he did spare a comment in an even tone. "Aren't you going to say it back, first?"

For some reason, the prospect seemed to frighten the Frenchman, as indicated by his wide eyes, grumbling, and sudden motivation to turn away from Gregory, who was then faced with a momentary lapse of confidence. Maybe Christophe didn't feel the same way. That thought hit the blond hard, prompting him to fall into a glassy-eyed state for a full minute until his companion finally rolled back over, draped an arm around his waist, and mumbled "I love you, too," against his forehead.

Gregory had never heard him speak so gently.

* * *

 

The second time that request to repeat himself met Gregory's ears, it sounded much more  _Christophe_ than the first. The former was leafing through their latest plot, which revolved around a rather annoying political scandal, and the latter had come up behind his chair just to whisper, "Say it again." It was so laden with the intent to provoke the Brit that it would've been superfluous to even add "I dare you." Then again, he knew it was only Christophe's way of trying to be nonchalant so that he might avoid a situation like last time, where he was rendered extremely vulnerable—something he didn't like to be.

With a small curve of his lips that would go unnoticed by most but registered as a smirk to his dark-haired companion, Gregory assented. "I love you."

"Love you, too." Followed by, "Now let me see that."

* * *

 

The third time came four days later, and in an irritatingly untimely manner. Gregory was flinging his hands out in every direction to point different people toward the station they sought, saving his voice for the issue of commands later on. They had to work fast; their planned mission was to take place in less than twenty-four hours.

Then, right in the midst of his business, Christophe gingerly settled himself on Gregory's lap and grabbed a fistful of golden hair to yank back. "I'm sort of busy, Chris," he growled, and then narrowed his eyes to glare up at the other.

"Oui, I am aware, Capitaine." The last word was forced out in a mocking manner, and, in an instant, the blond was acutely aware of his desire to bite Christophe. He forced himself to calm down, venting out his last stream of irritation through a sigh. He'd take care of that violent impulse later on in the night.

"What do you want?"

"Say it again."

" _Seriously?_ "

"I am always serious, Capitaine."

Another sigh forced its way through the Brit's now-upturned lips before he could even think about hiding his flushed face. "I love you,  _idiot._ "

Christophe looked genuinely pleased. "I love you too, you smug bastard."

* * *

 

Gregory heard those words for the fourth time the very next day at the height of their mission.

The two of them had just skidded into a ditch and were pressed snugly against both cold concrete and each other, breathing heavily from exertion and bearing smudges of dusty red dirt on their faces and forearms.

"Change of tactic, Mole: You go left, and I'll take the right."

"Whatever. We're going to catch that bastard either way I go."

"Of course. And remember— _left._ "

"Ah, but, I must say something."

"Hurry."

"Say it again."

Thin lips opened once more, tongue poised to repeat the plan, simple though it was. That's when realization hit and blond eyebrows furrowed the same instant a scoff was issued in response to Christophe's demand. "We don't have time for that right now. Later, after this is done." Then, instantly, Gregory was on his feet and rushing to the right, powering himself out of the ditch in one strong push.

Christophe watched the other's quick departure, all fluttering blond curls and thin legs sweeping through the air as he jumped up onto the grass above. The Frenchman found himself paying more attention to his own jump than he should have been; his exit was executed more quickly, but it lacked the grace of Gregory's, for he landed squarely on his knees, fingernails pressed into the dirt beneath him. He lingered, staring at his filthy hands and contemplating nothing in particular, though that nothing seemed very depressing, indeed. Why was that? he wondered.

It finally hit him just seconds later, when he was grabbed by the collar and resorted to clawing at the earth in a futile effort to anchor himself down, that he realized it had been disappointment gnawing at his bones.

* * *

 

Gregory found him on his back in the ditch, clutching at his side and coughing up blood.

" _Chris!_  Christophe!" Code names be damned; he yelled the brunette's name instinctively by this point. If there was trouble, they could always reach for each other, but now what? Christophe was the one who was hurt, and yet Gregory was the one with arms outstretched, as though  _he_  was the one in need of support for his wounds.

"God damn it," the Frenchman cursed, instantly twisting his fingers into the fabric of Gregory's shirt; the latter bent down and tugged at the thin scarf around his neck to press it insistently under Christophe's hand, daring to hope it would be enough to stop the bleeding.

"Press down." His voice was shaking. His voice  _never_ shook like that. Gregory wasn't afraid of a thing—not one, except this.

"Listen to me," the dark-haired male hissed, yanking the other down another two inches. Gregory was prepared to follow that order, and he waited for Christophe to continue, but he never did. For a startling moment, he feared his mate had died right then, but his concern was alleviated slightly when dark brown eyes blinked twice.

"Christophe?"

"Say it?" This was the first time Gregory had heard it posed as a question rather than a statement; unbeknownst to him, it was the first time Christophe felt as though he wasn't going to be granted that pleasure.

"I love you." No response. "Christophe, I love you. Please— " Please don't what? Don't die? He couldn't, in his right mind, say those words, because the thought that the other might actually stop breathing right there, down in a ditch somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, made Gregory feel sick to his stomach.

It took a moment, but he was answered at last. "Again."

"I love you!"

Swallow, choke, groan—all in succession. Christophe closed his eyes for one second, then ten, then twenty. Gregory felt as though his body had just gone numb, but he repeated himself, regardless. " _I love you_."

This time, he never heard it spoken back to him.

* * *

 

The next morning, Gregory's colleagues had all packed up and were poised to leave, yet, for reasons unknown to the Brit, they all remained. Either they were all too weighed down with guilt, or none of them wanted to cross his path.

Had he been thinking clearly, he would've moved out of the laboratory so they could pass through in peace, but, as it stood, he was not thinking clearly at all. He remained frozen in his spot where he leaned against the wall, clutching a cup of coffee that had long since cooled. The others didn't want to mention it to him any more than they wanted to ask why he was still wearing his uniform, dirt smudges, blood spatters, and all.

Eventually, one of them did step forward, immediately attracting the other workers' attention, followed soon by Gregory's.

"Greg."

"Kenny?"

No more words were spoken between them after that; Kenny simply moved closer, regarded the other with an odd expression, and patted him on the shoulder before brushing past him to leave the room. Oddly enough, this caught on, creating a pattern of something that he'd mistakenly identified as pity. But, then, half-way through the crowd, he realized that their eyes were not pitying, but glinting with some sort of knowledge that Gregory himself seemed not to know. His curiosity overtook his anguish for the briefest of moments, and just as he had thought to lower himself back into his metaphoric pit of despair, his eyes met the last worker still present in the lab, standing six-foot-one with bandages around his bare chest and a lopsided grin on his face.

Somewhere in the next few seconds, a coffee mug shattered on the floor. Gregory found himself clutching at Christophe's shoulders, soiling his skin with his dirtied uniform and decidedly not caring. " _How?_ " was the only thing he could manage to say.

"Your self-righteous Mister McCormick made a deal with the devil or some shit."

"Stop joking around, Christophe. I need some certifiable proof that I'm not hallucinating."

"If you want the truth, I have no fucking idea what that kid did, but when I woke up, I was on your bed and he was standing there putting away bandages."

"You were in my room?" Gregory's voice almost cracked, and Christophe heaved a sigh.

"You didn't go to sleep, so you would not have known."

"You're alive," the Brit said suddenly, taking a deep breath that trembled nearly as violently as his hands. "You're alive."

"I am alive." Christophe raised an eyebrow. "And you are filthy."

Gregory wasn't sure why, but he laughed. "I love you, you know."

Christophe wound his arms around the other's waist. "Say it again."

Again, Gregory laughed, now deciding he'd attribute it to combating the tears that threatened to fall. "Shouldn't you say it back first?"

"All right, all right. I love you, too." He kissed the blond's forehead, then his mouth. "I will love you until Death drags me down to hell." Here, he grinned. "And I do not plan on letting him do so any time soon."


	13. Maudlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dialogue-only!

_**Maudlin:** _ _Tearfully sentimental._

[Clyde & Bebe]

" _What?_  Is that it? No, no, no, no! Jack can't just—! He could've fit on the board, too, oh my God! That can't be the end! He can't just  _die!_ "

"Well, he does."

"How are you not in tears over this? It's so  _sad!_  Rose is gonna be all alone now!"

"I've seen it before. I'm immune."

"How could you ever become immune to such a tragic death scene?"

"Are you crying?"

" _Yes_ , I'm crying!"

"Oh."

"They loved each other so much, and then the stupid ship just—just sank!"

"Yes, that's how the story goes."

"I know, I know, but it's still horrible."

"Yeah, it was."

"…Why, Jack,  _why?_  Why couldn't you have lived!"

"It's okay. Calm down."

"I shan't, m'lady! For I must weep to avenge Jack's death!"

"Clyde, I never knew you were so sensitive to these types of movies."

"I'm just a sensitive guy, ya know?"

"Oh, quit smiling. You're supposed to be basking in the tragedy."

"I should've never let you talk me into watching Titanic."

"It was good, though, huh?"

"It's my new favorite movie  _ever._ "

"Then my job is done."

"I have experienced the deepest pain that any movie can bring."

"Oh, no you haven't. Not until you've seen Forrest Gump."

"…"

 


	14. Naevus

_**Naevus:** _ _Birthmark._

[Stan & Gary]

Sometimes they believed themselves to be quite a sight, as a unit. Two boys, one tall, gangly, and dark-haired, whereas the other was tan, blond, and much shorter. Additionally, as they liked to ignore but everyone else tended to point out, the latter had hit the age of eighteen with hardly an acne scar to speak of, whereas the former had a few—hardly noticeable unless viewed up close, but present nonetheless. Freckles, too, were distinguishing marks. Stan, the darker-haired boy, had not a single one, while Gary, his companion of three years now, had plenty from sun exposure and were scattered liberally across his back, legs, and everywhere else the sun had been lucky enough to touch.

Stan knew them all by heart, save for those that may've been hidden beneath a certain thin, cotton undergarment that Gary refused to take off in his vicinity. While Stan generally didn't try to push his luck, tonight was an instance where his curiosity got the better of him, and the moment Gary stepped foot out of the bathroom with his towel wrapped securely around his waist, Stan darted from his position propped against the headboard of their shared bed to the corner of the mattress, sitting back on his legs and boasting an expectant expression.

Gary's thin eyebrows rose. "Stan?"

The teen in question chewed on his lip for a moment before opening his mouth to speak—only to be cut off by a firm. "No."

"No, what?"

"I hope this won't offend you, dear, but you can't play dumb with me. I know what you were going to ask, and the answer is no." His raised brows lowered again and promptly knitted together, taking Stan's well-planned retort straight from his mouth and replacing it with a sigh of regret for even thinking about asking.

"Hell, I respect that, dude, but I just gotta ask…"

"I thought I gave you my answer already, Stanley," Gary quipped, making Stan cringe at both the tone and the use of his full name.

"Not that. I just wanna know why. We've been dating for three  _years_ , man. That's a hell of a long time not to be able to see your junk." The blond's face colored, but before he could reply, Stan continued with, "You see mine all the time, right?"

"Well, yes, but…" For a moment, Gary actually looked amused. "That is because you walk around our house naked quite frequently."

"Your point being?"

"It's not exactly the same concept."

The dark-haired boy sighed. "I know, I know. I just—there's one thing I  _don't_  know." He set his lips in a thin line; Gary mimicked him, even going as far as to put his knuckles to his hips.

Their staring contest didn't last long. Gary gave up first, his resolve fading into an onslaught of giggles that soon brought a fond smile to Stan's face. "All right," the former began lightly, "you wanna know why. Why?"

"Yes, why."

"I meant  _why_  you want to know whyI won't undress in front of you."

"Oh. Well, I mean, I think it's 'cause you're nervous, and I don't want you to be nervous around me…"

Gary's resulting pout told the other that he'd been correct in his assumption, which surprised him enough, but the fact that even someone as confident as Gary Harrison had insecurities seemed too strange a fact to be true. In an effort to lighten the mood again, Stan cracked a wider smile and asked, "Is it 'cause you're small? 'Cause that's okay, man, I don't care about that."

The blond laughed. "Stan! No. Well, I mean, I don't believe so, anyway. I'm not sure."

"Like hell you aren't sure," Stan returned pleasantly.

Again, Gary laughed, this time significantly more pink in the face than before. "O-oh, okay! I'm not. That's not why I'm nervous. Try again." The laughter died down to a tiny smile, hidden behind the teen's hand.

"You don't shave?"

"Do you care about  _that?_ "

"Heck no. Please, dude, you think I shave?"

"I do!"

"That's okay, too!" Stan was hiding his face in his hands now, but Gary was sitting next to him now, meaning that he was getting more comfortable with this conversation, at least. "Hmm. So…" He dropped his hands back into his lap and tried to ignore the slight after-shower mist of lingering heat that was drifting off Gary's skin.

At once, the taller of them brightened. In a tone much too excited to be natural, Stan blurted, "Freckles! Is it freckles?"

"No… Well, yes, but—"

"Fuck  _yes_." Gary shot him a strange look, to which he only offered a toothy grin. "Freckles are hot. Especially on you."

The look continued, though now it held a slight twinge of merriment beneath its surface. "Why, thank you."

"No problem. This bites, though. I can't think of anything that you'd feel bad about. Even if you didn't like something about yourself, I wouldn't care. I love  _you_ , dude, and I could care less about whatever it is."

Gary looked away and began idly twiddling his thumbs. "…You couldn't care less," he whispered after a moment. "If you could care less, you still care."

"C'mon, just tell me."

A sigh. "It's a stupid birthmark. It's rather large, and it's shaped like—stupid."

"Shaped like stupid," Stan deadpanned. "A  _birthmark_. It was a birthmark all along."

"Yes."

"Dude."

"Don't 'dude' me, Stanley Marsh."

A pause, then, suddenly, the duo broke out into unwarranted laughter, and Stan clutched at Gary's arm, looking over at him with shining eyes and a bright grin. "I bet it's cute."

"I bet it's not!"

"Can I see? Like, where is it, exactly?"

Stan definitely wasn't prepared for what his companion did next. After flashing the Marsh a coy smile, Gary scooted back on the bed and untied his towel, opening it up and moving one leg to the side in order to point at his inner thigh.

"I've never heard of anyone with a heart-shaped birthmark," the Mormon said with a scoff, rolling his eyes and looking at the ceiling to hide his embarrassment.

"I have," Stan managed to reply after a solid minute.

"What took you so long to say that?" Gary laughed a bit nervously and recovered himself, only to get a hasty "Wait, I didn't get to see it!" in response, at which he directed a flat: "Very funny."

"No, really, I didn't."

"Then what, pray tell, were you looking at?"

"…"

"Stan Marsh!"

The noirette chuckled. "I saw it, though. I was right, it's cute."

"…Oh, goodness, you are a handful sometimes."

"Gotta say, though...nice."

"The birthmark?"

"That, too."

Gary smiled at him and playfully smacked him on the arm. "You really are a class-A imbecile, darling."

 


	15. Oikonisus

_**Oikonisus:** _ _Desire to start a family._

[Gregory and Christophe]

This was not a conversation they should be having, Gregory thought, blinking owlishly in response to the words his companion had just spoken. Sure, the two of them tended to argue over trite things like politics and blueprints for assembling armoires, but they certainly did not debate about  _children._  As it stood, that was exactly the word Christophe had just used, tucked away in the context of starting a family.

Gregory didn't think he'd ever felt his heart beat so fast.

Christophe must have mistaken his surprise for mortification, because he deflated a bit, then returned the blond's unwavering stare with a surly expression and a clipped, "You know what? Never mind, it was stupid of me to ask."

"You actually asked me  _that_ ," was all the Brit could think to say for a moment as he shook his head in disbelief. "You asked me if I wanted…children…"

"With me, yes," Christophe huffed. "And it was stupid."

It took an agonizingly long time, but the blond finally responded, though he didn't dare to meet his boyfriend's eyes. "No, it's not. I just, I don't…"

"Want them."

"I never said that." There was no response from the Frenchman, so Gregory contented himself staring at the other's black hiking boots until they began shuffling around—an indication that Christophe was becoming antsy. Greg had to hand it to him, though: he wasn't usually this patient.

At length, blue eyes darted up and were immediately bore into by intent, serious brown ones. For reasons he couldn't explain, Gregory felt as though he wanted to cry, though he thankfully refrained from doing so. "I love children, actually. And it would be a blessing, I think, to have children with you. But we just… _can't._ "

"Biologically? Because there is a solution to that."

"I  _know_  that. What I mean is that we're not in the best spot." The Brit now sounded as pained as Christophe looked, but neither of them could deny that he was right. "We could afford to take care of one, sure, but we've got our—our occupations, if you will, to think about. I could never in my right mind drag a poor little kid into the midst of those dangerous missions. They need constant attention, and you know how we work. Sometimes we don't sleep for days."

"I know," Christophe returned, sounding much softer than Gregory was used to hearing. In the next instant, however, the brunette's vivacity returned, and his eyes lit up, startling the other into a curious sort of concern. "Ah, but I've got an idea."

"What might that be?"

"We could adopt!"

The amusement disappeared, replaced with annoyance and a deep-seated sadness. "Did you even listen to me? Maybe one day—"

"Oui, one day. But today—!"

" _Christophe_."

"A pet!"

"Excuse me?"

"We could adopt a pet. It is like a child, only less responsibility. A cat would be good, yes?"

At that, a wide smile blossomed on the Brit's lips. "My, that is quite a marvelous idea."

Looking extremely smug now, Christophe patted Gregory's shoulder and chuckled. "It  _was_  a pretty brilliant thought."

Not one to be outshone, Gregory grabbed a fistful of his companion's shirt and tugged him down a couple of inches so they were at eye-level, then grinned at the resulting surprise etched onto his face. "Spoken by a pretty brilliant man, if I do say so myself." The delight only grew when Christophe flushed, obviously pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

"Well, shit, why are we just standing here? If we're going to get a goddamned cat, let us get the goddamned cat."

Gregory laughed and ruffled Christophe's hair before darting toward the door. "Let's hope it curses more judiciously than you do."

With a snort, the darker-haired male followed.

They were only out of the house for a moment before Gregory pulled the other into a hug, effectively hiding his face in Christophe's chest. "I can see it now," he murmured against the gray cotton of the t-shirt, "it'll share your weekend schedule. Sleep, eat, bathe, eat, sleep."

"Oh, shut up."

"Boy or girl?"

There was a moment of deliberation, after which Christophe replied, "I'd rather be surprised."

"A surprise would be nice. Wonderful."

Christophe tried his best to look irritated by the other's chipper attitude, but he couldn't not smile in the presence of this lovely Englishman he so carelessly fell in love with.

A cat may not have been a child, exactly, but it was a very promising start.

 


	16. Palfrey

_**Palfrey:** _ _Riding horse, especially one for a lady._

[Clyde & Bebe]

"I never knew she rode horses."

"She probably rides a lot of things."

"That's so gross."

"That's definitely not gross. That's hot."

"Kenny!"

"Chill out, Clyde. I'm just sayin', Bebe is—"

"Shut up, man, she's coming over!"

Any retort that one snarky fifteen-year-old Kenny McCormick could've come up with died on his lips as Bebe trotted her horse—a petite, white fluff of an animal—toward them with an amicable smile on her face. "What's up, boys?"

Neither Clyde nor Kenny spoke. Bebe raised her eyebrow at them in the brief moment before something seemed to dawn on her. "Oh, I know what the problem is."

At that, Clyde reddened and Kenny grinned. The latter chipped in with a suggestive, "You do?" to which the girl responded with a laugh.

"Okay! Well I was obviously wrong. I thought you two were sharing some little joke about my horse."

The McCormick looked a little let down, but Clyde's smile was unmatched as he spoke. "Nah, man. I mean, uh, well, not man… Uh. Well, no." And, just like that, the smile was less enthusiastic and significantly more bashful as Kenny's howling laughter roared in his ear.

" _Dude_ , you are fuckin' great."

"He is, isn't he?" Bebe questioned lightly, leaning forward a bit to get a better look at the boys. "I always thought so. Glad to know someone else likes 'im, too."

Clyde's face was the same shade as the pink adorning Bebe's lips now, but Kenny was too wrapped up in a sudden epiphany to have his usual chuckle about it. " _Ohh._ "

"'Oh,' what?" Clyde stammered, pushing his hair back with one hand in a frustrated attempt to regain some semblance of composure.

Suddenly sobered up, the parka-clad teen yanked Clyde toward him by his jacket pocket and whispered something into his ear that turned the pink on the brunette's face to a healthy crimson. "Ahh…are you sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure. I know what I'm talkin' about, Clyde. Jesus."

"Fine, sorry."

"It's cool, dude. Go get it."

"Shut up, Kenny."

"Fuck yourself." With a broad grin, Kenny shoved the other boy toward the horse Bebe sat atop and raised his voice again. "Yo, Bebe! We got another jockey who wants a ride."

"Really? Great!" The curly-haired girl hooked her foot into one stirrup and let herself down, picking imaginary lint off her jeans and raising one leg at a time to dust off her boots. She approached Clyde with what was quite possibly the most sincere smile Kenny had ever seen on her. "Do you have any riding experience?"

The brunette glanced nervously at Kenny, then back at the girl. "No…"

"Then you can have Clyde."

"…Huh?"

Bebe flushed a bit, but maintained her merry expression and instead transferred her bashfulness to the twiddling of her thumbs. "That little horse right there. I've got a bigger one in the stables that I normally ride, but Clyde's good for beginners. He's real sweet, so I named him after you. I dunno, I just thought it was cute."

Kenny whistled and began hooting a series of assurances in his best southern accent. "Git on et, li'l boy! Go en git it,  _Claiyyyyyyde._ "

The other two stared at Kenny blankly for a good few seconds until their gazes returned to each other when the McCormick was occupied well enough with his own jokes.

"So," Bebe began, redoing her ponytail and eyeing Clyde with a grin. "Ready to ride?"

The brunette rubbed the back of his neck and imitated Kenny in a much softer, less obnoxious manner, "I reckon I am, ma'am."

Bebe laughed and playfully swatted at his shoulder. "All right, cowboy. Let's ride."

 


	17. Quersprung

_**Quersprung:** _ _In skiing, a jump-turn at right angles._

[Stan & Gary]

It began snowing in Colorado early that year, resulting in undisguised excitement of the Marsh family parents and, subsequently, a flurry of suitcases flying into the trunk of their car faster than their two children had time to blink.

Truthfully, "children" wasn't the best way to describe them, since the oldest, Shelly, had just turned eighteen, and her younger brother Stan was now fifteen—old enough to have adopted a rebellious persona and a penchant for being "off" with his once-sweetheart Wendy more often than "on." At the present, the town's token couple had been split for two months, and, for once, Stan didn't feel too bad about it. Maybe they had grown apart permanently, he mused—or, rather, he would've been musing, had his overly-exuberant father not burst into the room and shoved an empty suitcase into his son's arms with a loud declaration of the upcoming family trip to Aspen.

_Aspen?_  Stan sighed, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dad, don't you remember the last time—" he began, but Randy was obviously adamant and so the matter was settled.

* * *

 

Stan had only skied once in his life, rendering the blanketed hills of Aspen's ski resort more than a little daunting to him. He affirmed to himself that there was no way he was taking the lessons for adults, because he could hear the instructor screaming insults for half a mile, and he outright refused to go on the Bunny Slope, for obvious reasons. Ultimately, he was forced to try his best with the knowledge he had. Doing so did not work as planned: He ended up with his face in the snow at least eight times, and when he finally gathered the last of his pride to go for his ninth attempt, a kid that looked about his age passed right in front of him where he sat in the snow and slid to the most graceful stop that Stan had ever seen. All confidence fled him in the form of a mellow sigh.

"Ah! You're Stan Marsh, aren't you?" The skier smiled brightly, perfect teeth glinting in a way that made the snow-ridden boy slightly uncomfortable and yet strangely interested. Interested in what, he didn't know. "Gee, I never thought I'd see you up here."

Stan's brows furrowed over his now-narrowed eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

The skier, who, at first, had merely been an entity of medium-height with a rather impressive physique clad in a terribly bright red ensemble, presently removed his helmet and shook his slightly damp blond curls from his face. He certainly was  _not_  a stranger. Stan recognized the boy instantly, and he wasn't sure whether to groan or gape. Unfortunately, he was already doing the latter before he'd even thought about it. " _Gary?_ "

The blond laughed once at the other's expression before offering him a gloved hand. "Right you are."

Stan wished it were physically possible for him to narrow his eyes further at the Mormon. He ignored the hand and got to a shaky standing position by himself, although that alone took nearly five minutes. "So, what? Why're you talking to me, kid? I thought you hated me."

Gary's eyes fluttered. "Huh? Oh, gosh, no! I was upset with you, sure, but I could never hate you."

"Against your religion or something?"

"Against my moral principles." Gary smiled bemusedly. "But yes—against my religion as well."

"Yeah, I figured."

The blond's silence made Stan realize the subject had been dropped, which gave him an opportunity to ask where, exactly, Gary had learned to ski so well. The question seemed to make the boy perk up. "I was self-taught, actually. It's one of the only things I seem to be a natural at."

Stan let out a bark of laughter, which morphed the other's expression into one of hurt and made Stan feel guilty enough to add, "I mean, that's dumb, dude; everyone knows you're a natural at, like, everything."

Gary chuckled as he pressed a hand to his chest. "Oh, goodness! Everyone thinks that, or just you?"

The question made Stan's face heat up for reasons he didn't feel like questioning. "I dunno. Me. And everyone else. I don't know."

"You said that already."

"Said what?"

Gary's smile grew. "Never mind, Stan. Want me to teach you how to do what I just did?"

"Jump and turn like that? That'd take forever!"

"All right, what if I just taught you the basics?"

"Sounds like a better idea."

"Glad you think so." The blond grabbed Stan's forearm and tugged. "Come on, then. Let's go to the top of the beginner's hill."

"The Bunny Slope? Dude, hell no! I'm not a baby."

"But you're a beginner."

"I don't wanna look stupid."

Again, Gary laughed. "You won't look stupid. Look, even your parents are there!"

"My point, exactly."

"Just don't worry about it and you'll be fine." He tugged again, more insistently this time. As he began his attempt to tote Stan to the Bunny Slope, the other yanked his arm back in order to make his disdain for the idea as apparent as he could; unfortunately, Gary had a much stronger grip than Stan expected, causing the latter's feet slide out from under him. Both boys toppled to the ground, with Stan pinned into the snow and unsure of whether to look angry or embarrassed. He tried for the former, but, despite his efforts, appeared to be the latter, instead.

Gary, who had been shocked out of breath and was therefore trying to control his lungs before speaking, hovered over the other and regarded him with wide eyes. "Well, Stan, I knew you liked me, but this wasn't exactly the subtlest of moves."

The hue of Stan's face quite resembled that of the Mormon's suit, now. "Dude, shut up."

That ever-present smile was back, though it was vaguely obscured by puffs of white from where Gary's breath met the cold air. "I don't suppose it's very polite to say 'make me.'"

"You don't have to." Stan looked like he was surprised at himself for saying anything, but he continued, regardless. "I was gonna do it anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Gary chuckled. "Then why haven't you?"

"I dunno. I mean, I don't know if I can do it, because you're, like, super handsome. That sounded—that was cheesy as fuck, I'm sorry. But it's true."

Stan didn't think he'd ever seen Gary blush before, but he guessed there was a first time for everything. "Thank you, Stan. You, too."

There was an awkward pause for a moment, which Stan finally broke with an embarrassingly nervous, "We can kiss later or something, though."

Gary pushed himself up onto his knees and looked down at his friend with a bashful smile. Stan didn't know why, but he didn't sit up right then. Instead, he stared up at the other, whose fly-away hair glowed in the sun and whose eyes were crinkled with laugh lines. He was remarkable beautiful, Stan thought, followed by a flat declaration of, "That was probably the gayest thing I've ever thought, just now."

The Mormon's grin grew impossibly wide. "I'm guessing that's a compliment?"

"Maybe. Yes. Shut up and teach me how to ski, already."

 


	18. Rafale

_**Rafale:** _ _Burst of artillery in quick rounds._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"Shoot faster, goddamn it!" Christophe's cursing had grown more colorful with each passing second of this disastrous run. Each expletive soon became punctuated by the irritated smacking of the object in his hand. "This stupid gun is supposed to be an automatic!"

"Don't you dare break that, you imbecile," Gregory hissed without looking at the other, as he was equally involved in their mission and, therefore, almost as angry. "It's an expensive piece of equipment."

"Thanks for the update,  _mother_. Psh, really. I am aware."

"I'm telling you, if you break that, then you're paying for a replacement."

"Are you shitting me?" Christophe's dark eyes finally settled on Gregory and narrowed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find these nowadays?"

"My point, exactly! Don't bust it!"

"Fine! Just back me up before I get shot in the goddamned head."

The two of them commenced onward, grumbling under their breath. Eventually Christophe was able to make amends with the gun he held, which finally calmed the mercenaries down until a continuous string of bullets whizzed by their heads and sealed their fate.

"No, no,  _no!_ " Gregory shot up from the couch to a standing position and groaned. "Congratulations, Chris, you cost us the mission!"

"Well, I didn't  _mean_  to die!" The Frenchman and the Brit both seethed in their failure while they stared at the television screen, watching the former's character lie on the ground, inert and drenched in blood, behind swirling letters. Game Over.

There was a long, tense pause before Gregory finally relaxed and dropped the N64 controller onto the ground. "Screw this filthy machine."

"Hey, now," Christophe began smugly, "don't break that."

"Oh, shut up."

 


	19. Sidelight

_**Sidelight:** _ _Colored lights on the side of a ship under way at night._

[Clyde & Bebe]

The lights on the water were beautiful tonight. Clyde watched these lights in an effort to become absent of all thought: an attempt that wasn't quite working as effectively as desired, thus far. He leaned one elbow on the rail of the cruise ship deck that he, alone, occupied and sighed wistfully.

High school graduation had been a blast, and he figured he ought to be enjoying the cruise that the Black family had gifted to their son's senior class, yet he couldn't seem to do so as easily as he had hours earlier. Now that it was nighttime and everyone except Kenny and his rowdy pals were asleep, it was much harder to spend his time merrily.

He spent a good five minutes dangling his arms over the metal rails boredly before he glanced over his shoulder to look at South Park's most infamous quartet of recently-graduated boys—because they still were boys, really—playing a loud game of drunken poker with Annie and Butters.

Clyde found himself staring rather than glancing, not that he really thought about it. Brown eyes found themselves on Annie, admiring her pretty alcohol-flushed cheeks and golden ringlets that fell about her shoulders. It took him too long to notice another curly-haired blonde was standing beside him now, with her red cocktail dress still on and her black heels dangling by the straps from her fingers.

"Yo, Clyde," she said softly, breaking him out of his one-sided staring match. "I'm sorry that Butters has your girl and all, but I don't think eyeing her like that's gonna help anything."

He was spluttering some false alibi for his behavior before he even caught Bebe's grinning eyes, which only gave her more of a reason to question his solo sea-staring endeavors. "I—I'm not, I mean, I don't like her, I was just—"

The blonde waved his half-formed excuse off before she patted his shoulder with a touch a little too tender and lingering to be viewed entirely as merely amicable. "Don't worry, you'll get your dream girl someday." She smiled as he looked back out at the water and tried not to look embarrassed.

"I doubt it." There was hardly a chance for Bebe to offer more optimism that would inevitably break Clyde's heart before the latter continued talking. "Anyway, uh, why're you still all dressed up?"

The girl nudged his arm with her own, then dropped her voice to an even quieter octave than before so that he had to lean down closer to hear her. "I was hoping to take one of those romantic walks on the deck with the guy I like," she told him with a sly smile.

Clyde blinked, oblivious. Bebe rolled her eyes. "You, Clyde. D'ya wanna walk around for a bit?"

The brunette sputtered fragments of his affirmation, looking at various spots in the sky as he did so. It was all he could do to keep from crying tears of joy. After all, he supposed that would ruin the mood. Whatever that mood was.

Bebe giggled and set her shoes down to grab both of his hands. "Come on, let's go this way so Cartman and his gang of drunks don't start hollerin' at us." Right as she spoke those words, Kyle came hurdling to a spot just a foot away from Clyde and leaned over the railing to puke into the water.

"Aww, now the boat-lights are blue  _and_ green!" Kenny called from his spot at their game table.

The rest of them guffawed obnoxiously, and Stan made an addendum to Kenny's comment with a "Good goin', babe!"

"Like you have room to talk, Stan!" Annie shot back with another peal of piercing laughter.

"Neither of y'all can hold your alcohol for  _shit_ ," Kenny said, slamming his hands down on the table with an amused chuckle and consequently spilling cards and beer on himself and Cartman both. The latter's curses filled the air soon after that.

Bebe shook her head and began tugging Clyde toward the stairway that lead below deck. "I changed my mind 'bout that walk. Let's go to my room, instead." Here, she winked, and while Clyde's face colored considerably, his grin was impossible to suppress.

"To graduation!" Kenny roared just as the duo reached the top step. "Fuck the livin' daylights out of him, Bebe! For all of us!"

Stan flashed them a goofy smile and a thumbs-up just as Kyle came stumbling back over and into his lap. "Have fun, you guys."

The blushing Donovan was presently toted into the blonde's room for the remainder of the night—a process that ended with their waking of the nearest three rooms because of their noise. Clyde wouldn't deny that they'd certainly made the very best of their graduation party.

 


	20. Titivate

_**Titivate:** _ _Dress up; spruce up._

[Stan & Gary]

Gary had been getting ready for twenty minutes now.  _Twenty fucking minutes_ , Stan thought as he rubbed his temple. This was supposed to have gone quickly, but he should've known better when it came to his boyfriend.

The boyfriend in question was running around the house, constantly patting at invisible wrinkles in his blue tuxedo and only pausing in the living room every so often to question Stan about how he looked. Being the nice guy that he was, the dark-haired teen would always smile pleasantly and answer each time with, "You look great." He didn't know why Gary cared so much about his appearance, though, since it was his brother who was getting married, not him.

After another ten minutes had inched by, Stan checked the time on his phone and finally stood from his spot on the couch. "Dude, c'mon, we really gotta leave."

"I'm glad you're so eager to go, Stanley, but I'm not ready quite yet."

"You know it's, like, fifteen 'til, right?"

Immediately, a shock of immaculately-styled blond hair appeared from around the corner. " _What?_ It can't be  _that_ late!"

"Well, it is," the taller of them huffed before he beckoned the other over. "You look fine, seriously. Can we go now?"

"I suppose we have to. Oh, I hope we're not late…" Gary bit at his thumbnail for a moment as he dragged a suspiciously critical eye over Stan's manner of dress.

"Don't tell me I look bad, please. I can't handle that right now."

At that, Gary chuckled. "I was going to say quite the opposite, darling."

A warm smile crossed Stan's face, but it was evident from the way he was shifting from foot to foot that he was beginning to get impatient. "Then why're you—"

"Just hold still, please. One little thing…" These near-silent mumblings, as issued by the blond, were concluded with his running a hand through the other boy's hair, effectively maneuvering his bangs back into their original neat position. "There we go. Now you look perfect."

Stan laughed once and pressed a hand to Gary's back in an effort to hustle him out the door. "All right. Thanks, Mom."

"I was only trying to help," returned the other pleasantly, allowing himself to be hurried toward Stan's Sedan.

Stan opened the passenger side door for Gary, an action that garnered a bright smile and pleasant thanks. "I know, I know. But if we're late, we may not be able to catch the bouquet." Here, he winked, and the Mormon did his best to contain his flustered laughter.

"Oh, Stan. I didn't know you thought about that."

"All the time, babe." With that said, he delivered a quick kiss to the other's cheek and shut the door before rushing to his own seat and plopping down. "All right," he began with a dramatic exhalation, "let's kick this wedding's ass."

 


	21. Urbacity

_**Urbacity:** _ _Excessive pride in one's city._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"My, the scenery here is lovely." At the close of these words, a deep breath was drawn, held for exactly three seconds, then let go in a noisy exhalation. "It smells like baked bread, too. Lovely," the speaker repeated, crossing his arms and leaning against the impressively tanned, muscular arm of his fellow mercenary.

"I knew you would come around, Gregory. Paris is a great city, non?"

"Shut your trap, would you, Christophe?" Gregory eyed the menu over the other's shoulder. "Remember, we're on a mission. We are most certainly not sight-seeing."

The darker-haired male snorted. "We are seeing sights, are we not? And you are clearly liking what you see. I believe that is called sight-seeing."

"The only sight there is to see here is that hideous shirt you're wearing," the blond returned evenly, scooting toward to end of the booth they occupied in order to gesture theatrically toward the atrociously-colorful garment in question, which bore a large picture of the Eiffel Tower on its front and the words  _J'aime Paris!_ written in curly script on the back.

"There is nothing wrong with having pride in your city."

"There is when that city is the filthiest city in France." Gregory pretended to check his nails while he awaited his cohort's inevitable polemic. Soon enough, it came.

"Filthiest city in France? Hah! Sure, call it as it is—yet it is still cleaner than your foggy, abysmal Yardale you love so much!"

At that, Gregory pointed one glove-covered finger at the other accusingly. "You've never even been there! Don't pretend you know a bloody thing—"

"Wait!"

"I will  _not_ wait for—"

"Shut  _up_ ," Christophe demanded, making a wild gesture with one hand at the same instant he narrowed his eyes at something in the distance.

Just a few feet from their table, posing in the crowd as if they were speaking amicably with one another, were the mercenaries' targets, and the moment the Frenchman noticed them, his tone and expression changed from one extreme to the other. "I think our friends are here," he all but purred, draping one arm over the back of the booth behind Gregory's shoulders.

"Are they now?" the blond replied, speaking with an oft-practiced air of indifference as he continued his previous attempt to rake the menu of the restaurant they sat outside. "Why don't you say hello?" During his rehearsed line, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of a gun's safety clicking off. Expecting the sound of a muted shot, he was surprised to hear his companion hiss an expletive into his ear before gripping his chin rather roughly between thumb and forefinger and pulling him into a kiss. The sound he made in response was certainly unprofessional, but the expression on his face rivaled it.

Christophe pulled back for just long enough to whisper, "They've spotted us. Act natural."

The Englishman tensed when he felt a soft whoosh of air beside the table, indicating someone had stepped closer, and an instant later, he felt the presence of someone standing near them. When the target in question refused to go away after several moments, he shoved one hand between Christophe's legs and kissed him harder, drawing a startled groan from the other. Just like that, the looming presence was gone, and Gregory relaxed in his seat, relieved and entirely unaware of the furiously-blushing Frenchman who looked rather scandalized. "What was that for?"

"I got them to leave, didn't I?"

"No we've lost them, idiot!"

"It's hard to please some people, isn't it?"

"…At least this means we can explore the city some more, oui?"

Gregory rolled his eyes. "I suppose so."

"I know of some wonderful hotels…"

This time it was the Brit's turn to blush. "That—that was for diversion!"

Christophe grinned. "What better diversion is there than hiding away for a while?"

To the dark-haired male's credit, his companion did appear to be considering this. Finally, after this noted moment of deliberation, an answer came forth. "I do believe you're right. Our friends won't be leaving France without us, after all."

"Oh, mon cher, do not worry—they will not be leaving at all."

"Then let's go on and explore the city."

"It would be a pleasure, monsieur."

 


	22. Veduta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is sort of cheesy, lol.)

_**Veduta:** _ _Panoramic view of a town._

[Clyde & Bebe]

"Hello, South Park!" These words, which echoed in the air and sent birds scattering, rang out across the tops of the buildings as easily as the laughter that followed them and put a wide smile on one Clyde Donovan's face.

His friend Bebe, the hearth of the phrase aforementioned, was now content standing against the breeze that had just stirred. She flung her arms out to her sides and yelled again, this time simply voicing a sound.

Clyde couldn't help but stare at her, silently admiring the vivacity that had settled on her soft, pretty features. He wished he had done this sooner, because the way his friend's face lit up at the sweeping view of the town beneath them was positively enchanting. Seeking solace on the roof of the mall wasn't exactly allowed, but none of the employees had ever cared enough to stop him in the past—which was how he got so much time to himself during his lunch breaks—so today's break entailed sitting on the edge of the brick with a girl fascinated by not only the mall itself, but also by the view its rooftop provided.

"Clyde, come'ere!"

It took the teen a moment to realize he'd been called by the grinning blonde, but he was quick to shuffle to his feet and join her, nonetheless. "Let's take a picture together." Presently, the girl withdrew her cell phone and hit the camera button, already aimed and posed before Clyde even thought to smile. "We gotta get the cityscape behind us," she informed him, which he laughed at and received a wrinkled nose and a tiny frown in response. "What's so funny?"

"I was just thinking—I mean, what cityscape? Our town has about four buildings."

Her expression eased back into a smile, though she did stand to scoff at the brunette. "Oh, shut up. I know that. Doesn't mean it can't look pretty with the right photographer. You trust me?"

"More than anyone," he replied, sounding much more collected than he felt. He considered the fact he should've just said "yes" and kept it at that, but the words were already spoken and Bebe seemed happy enough with them, so he kept his mouth curved into an awkward smile and didn't open it again.

"Ready?" the girl asked.

Clyde nodded and, at last moment, slid an arm around her shoulders. He felt his smile relax into a more natural one when Bebe giggled.

"I got it!" With that, she turned back around to face the town, ardently tugging on her friend's jacket sleeve so he would do the same. He watched her slide her phone into her back pocket, then quickly averted his eyes.

"Uh, my shift ends in two minutes, so…" The awkward smile was back, not that the girl noticed, for all her attention was focused on the sky that stretched in front of them, only inhibited by the subtle slopes of colored rooftops and a sparse freckling of birds. Her response to his announcement came in the form of a brief nod, and, with her following words, she speedily digressed. "Isn't it gorgeous, Clyde?"

He answered without thought, though his eyes didn't leave her for a moment. "Beautiful."

Something in his tone must've caught her attention, because the blonde's gaze met his with a frightful suddenness that had Clyde's face flushing quicker than he could look away.

"Clyde," Bebe began, her own tone morphing into one of playful accusation. "Don't tell me you're sweet on me."

He fought hard to maintain a smile while he spoke around the lump in his throat. " _Nahhh_ — I mean, you're really hot and stuff, but— Ah… I'm sorry. I meant that you're really…uh, yeah."

She raised one eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. Her smirk was one unmatched, he thought nervously, trying his best not to look at her and failing miserably in his attempt. "I'm really 'yeah,' am I?"

"Yeah."

All evidence that she was joking left her face: her smile still remained, however, though it had become much softer. "Thank you. That's sweet."

He all but stammered when he felt her hand brush against his. "Is it?"

"Very sweet. Y'know what else is sweet?"

"What?"

"Remember that bubblegum lip gloss you bought me the other day?" she questioned, letting her smile curl into a mischievous grin.

Clyde didn't think his face could get any redder. "Yeah?"

There was no verbal response before she wound her arms around his neck and pushed up onto her tiptoes to kiss him, startling him out of just about every thought aside from the self-issued commands to get over his nerves and kiss her back. After this fleeting moment of shell-shock he did just that, calming himself enough to set his hands on her hips.

She pulled back after a moment, letting her hands drift downward to grasp his forearms. "Thanks for taking me up here, by the way."

The brunette hoped his smile wasn't too incredibly dorky, but he couldn't seem to suppress it. "Hey, no problem. Any time—lunch break's the same time every day."

"Speaking of your break," the girl started, suddenly looking worried, "wasn't that over, like, five minutes ago?"

There was a stiff pause, then Clyde shrugged. "You know what? Fuck 'em. They can wait."

 


	23. Welk

_**Welk:** _ _To twist about._

[Stan & Gary]

Drunk high-schoolers were a force to be reckoned with, Stan quickly realized. Sure, he'd been in some bad situations involving alcohol when he was younger, but he was over that and therefore had no desire to touch a bottle. That choice, of course, made him, Gary, and Kyle the only sober kids in the currently-parentless Marsh house.

The party was going well enough, but Stan could've sworn that no seventeen-year-old in their right mind would come up with the idea to "play Twister." Luckily, one party monster of a McCormick was sufficiently drunk, and so the idea was proposed.

Stan was going to  _kill_ Kenny, because now it was two-thirty on a Saturday morning and his forearm was suddenly jammed against Gary Harrison's crotch, his face was about three inches diagonally from Kenny's ass, and Cartman's face was practically jammed into his left hip. The only thing he could seem to focus on was that he was  _touching_ another dude's junk. Gary's, at that. This wasn't good for either of them—a fact that Stan found out in what was possibly the least comfortable manner.

The blond was already teetering precariously over Bebe's toes, and the fact that there was no amount of stillness, but instead a constant bumping motion, was quickly forcing him to his game-related death. If Clyde would only stop swaying into Stan so often, the latter wouldn't have to worry about how he was essentially rocking a limb into some poor boy's sex. This event was going to end in disaster, he thought: that much was certain.

Eventually Kenny and Bebe twisted their way into a collapsed heap on top of Cartman, and the trio was disqualified from the match. Only Stan, Gary, and a distressingly drunk Clyde remained. The relief was immense for Stan, though he imagined he didn't look half as thankful as Gary, who was so red in the face the dark-haired teen thought for sure he'd give in. It was beginning to look like the Mormon was just as stubborn as he was, though.

Stan's beseeching prayer that the next command would move his right hand turned out to be a lost cause, for it was the left foot that traveled. He was getting a little antsy from constantly staring down at Gary's face, but he refused to lose to a drunken classmate and the aforementioned blond, so he stayed put, trying his hardest to think of anything besides how the other was biting his lip now and  _goddammit_ , Clyde kept fucking  _rocking_ and their game was beginning to look like some bad rendition of a three-way porno.

This was it, he thought. He was going to have to forfeit to a drunk Donovan or risk giving an attractive boy a boner in the middle of a game. (Giving an attractive boy a boner hadn't always sounded so bad to Stan, but this was seriously embarrassing.) Luckily for him, Clyde finally passed out and fell over, though he successfully toppled Stan onto Gary in the process.

"Who won?" the party's host groaned upon picking himself off the furiously-blushing Mormon.

Craig, the game's token spinner, looked from the board to Stan. "It was a tie. Your elbow and Harrison's back hit at the same time."

At that, both boys in question groaned. "Fuck this game," the dark-haired male said.

"Agreed," the other breathed, covering his eyes with his arm. "Never again. At least not in front of everyone else." Stan pretended he didn't notice the way Gary grinned without even lifting his arm and glanced around to ensure that no one had heard that. Evidently no one had.

No further conversation was held, as Kenny had stood up on the coffee table and declared a new game. "Seven Minutes in Heaven!" he practically screeched.

Stan and Gary exchanged nervous gazes.

It was going to be a  _long_  night.

 


	24. Xenodocheionology

_**Xenodocheionology:** _ _Love of hotels._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"This place is fantastic," Christophe announced from where he was poised on the floor, knees pressed into the carpet and one arm underneath the bed of the mercenary duo's newly-acquired hotel room.

"What's so great about it? It's a dirty room with hardly anything in it." Gregory stared at his companion with a frown, all the while mentally cursing the fact they got stuck with a one-bed arrangement. "It suits your style perfectly, I suppose."

Christophe, for once, didn't rebuke, but instead brandished something that glinted in the light. "Aha! Found something."

At that, the Brit's eyebrows shot up. "You actually found something valuable? Let me see, you twat!" He snatched the shining object from the other's hand, only to find that it was nothing more than someone's lost earring. Promptly the jewelry was dropped onto the floor, and Christophe went scrambling after it.

"Do not lose that," he hissed, plucking it from the carpet with more care than Gregory thought was necessary. "It is a souvenir of our hotel."

Despite himself, the blond had to smile, as small as the gesture was. "You have some strange attachment to hotels, don't you?"

"Oui. Shut up."

"I didn't  _say_ anything…"

"Mmhm, sure you didn't."

"I swear to you, I did not say a word." Gregory crossed his heart to make his point as clear as possible. "It's fine that you do. I don't really care one way or another what you do here, so long as you take a bloody  _shower_  before you get into bed with me."

Christophe snorted and set the earring on the TV stand behind him. "What?" he asked, voice teasing. "You don't like my rugged manly aroma?"

"Absolutely not."

"Yes you do." As he said this, the Frenchman took a step closer to his companion with open arms, prompting a wide-eyed look and upraised hands in response.

"Oh, no you don't, Chris."

"Oui."

" _No_. Don't you dare—" Before Gregory could finish, he found himself being hoisted up, bridal-style, into muscled arms and held snugly against Christophe's chest. "Christophe, put me down this instant!"

"Non."

"You need to fucking shower. You're filthy."

"Your mouth is filthy."

"Christophe, so help me, I will—"

"I can think of at least three ways to make it more filthy, mon cher."

A flush quickly overtook the blond's face, and suddenly the well-spoken man was nothing more than a speaker of unintelligible stammers. Christophe only grinned; Gregory fought the urge to punch him. Just as the latter had gathered his wits enough to speak, the Frenchman tilted his head and pressed his lips against his own.

In a matter of seconds he felt himself being dropped on the bed, followed by Christophe clambering on top of him and deepening their kiss. Then, at once, the dark-haired man was gone, and Gregory, telling himself that he was certainly not disappointed, watched as he began skittering around on the floor again. "Chris?" he questioned, tone flat. "What in the world are you doing?"

"I'm searching for more stuff, duh. Don't want to waste time while we have it."

Silence ensued before the Englishman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate hotels."

 


	25. Yabba

_**Yabba:** _ _Large Jamaican earthenware or wooden vessel._

[Clyde & Bebe]

"Hey, Bebe! What's this thing in your living room?"

Silence.

Clyde began to panic.

_Great_ , he thought,  _just great_. There was a huge wooden pot  _thing_ sitting just to the right of his girlfriend's TV and he couldn't, for the life of him, remember when it had gotten there, or what it even was. His most pressing fear was that it was an urn, and that he'd missed the death of someone important to her. That would make him the shittiest boyfriend ever, wouldn't it? He had texted her every day this week, though, and she hadn't said anything… maybe she felt too upset to tell him!

The thoughts kept running through his mind, catching at each corner of his brain until he was a fidgety mess, squished against one arm of the couch in his agitation while he waited for her to return.

It had to be an urn. Perhaps her father's? He  _had_  been coughing quite a lot last time Clyde was here… Oh, God, he mouthed, pressing his face into the nearest pillow. Her dad is dead and she's so distraught she can't even tell her own boyfriend! How could he sit through another episode of Dexter knowing how upset she was? There had to be some way to comfort her—to let her know he was there for her to cry on his shoulder.

_Right, he had to be brave._  Promptly, he sat up and straightened himself out quickly, just in time for the curly-haired teen to walk down the hall and into view. "What were you sayin' earlier, babe?" she asked lightly, downing the rest of the Coke she held and crushing the can between two hands.

Clyde inhaled deeply. "I want to know—" He watched as she threw the empty can into the wooden container and gaped at her, "how you could  _do_  that! Desecrate your own poor dad's remains! Oh, God, what kind of blasphemy is this?"

During his rambling, Bebe's eyebrows furrowed. Also notably, her father appeared in the room with an expression quite similar. "You okay there, boy?" he questioned awkwardly.

Clyde's tear-filled eyes shot open. "Uh…yessir," he answered sheepishly.

Bebe shook her head and smiled fondly. "Clyde, honey, this is a trash can if you were wondering."

A pause, then a dramatic, " _Ohhh…_ "

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"No big deal."

"So…up for more Dexter?"

She joined Clyde on the couch and waved her very confused father off with a laugh. "Sounds good."

 


	26. Zapata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring you the last chapter of The Leman's Alphabet! It was super fun writing this, and I thank everyone for reading. :) TLA went from 8/30/13 to 2/21/14 and I managed to write eleven other oneshots in between the first and last chapters of this being uploaded. That's pretty cool.

_**Zapata:** _ _Flowing, drooping moustache._

[Stan & Gary]

This was it: the day Stan would finally get to see Gary again. It had been a while, that was for sure; they'd been separated for an entire year while the Mormon studied abroad in France. Long-distance relationships, as they'd both learned, were rather difficult, but there fell a kind of comfort among the two of them that at least Gary would finally be coming home today.

Stan practically buzzed with nerves as he sat on his living room couch with Kenny and Cartman, while Kyle ambled around in the kitchen. The latter had just finished shouting his two cents in response to one of Cartman's stupid comments when the doorbell rang, and each boy suddenly had their eyes on their black-haired friend—even Kyle, who'd apparently raced to the kitchen doorway to see if it was the guest they'd been expecting that had arrived.

The center of attention swallowed hard and rose slowly in an effort to avoid darting to answer the door. "You think that's him, guys?" he asked, unaware of the way his voice jumped with nerves until Cartman and Kenny burst out laughing and brought it to his now-red-faced attention.

"All right, shut up, guys. You've had your laugh," Kyle piped up from where he stood, flashing a fond smile at Stan. "It's a big day for Mister Casanova over here, huh?"

"Hurry the fuck up and answer the door then, Stanny-boy," Kenny hooted. "We came to watch you two lovebirds make out."

"I didn't," Cartman put in with a theatrical grimace. "That's gay."

"Shut up, Cartman," Kyle and Kenny said in unison.

With that concluded, Stan finally rose from his seat and went to answer the door, wide blue eyes meeting the familiar pair of brown ones with a spark of intangible electricity.

Then a pause of cold static followed on Stan's end, where he froze up into a stiff position and stared unfalteringly at Gary's still-smiling face. "…Gary?"

"Hello, Stan!"

There wasn't a response on the dark-haired teen's end, but behind him Cartman and Kenny began laughing again, more loudly than before. Even Kyle could be heard trying to stifle his chuckles before the others' laughter rose in volume and Kenny had lost the ability to even hold himself up.

Gary's thin eyebrows furrowed as he glanced from a howling, floor-ridden Kenny to Stan's face. "What's so funny?"

Stan smiled awkwardly. "Uh, well, it's just that—"

"What the  _fuck_ is on your face, dude?" Cartman managed to wheeze before his friend could give an honest answer.

"Oh, that!" The blond grinned and touched his upper lip for a fleeting moment. "I started growing it out when I first got to Paris. A lot of the guys there had beards and stuff, so I figured I'd try it, too. What do you think, Stan?"

"Yeah, Stan," Kyle started, voice too high from his ongoing struggle not to laugh, "what do you think?"

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I like the beard, but the moustache is a little…long."

"He's got a fuckin' Fu Manchu."

"Shut  _up_ , Cartman." It was Stan who spoke the demand, this time. "It's not that bad," he quickly added, holding up his hands in his boyfriend's defense.

Despite the situation, Gary's smile held. "Hey, it's Eric's opinion. It's no big deal."

" _I can't breathe_ ," Kenny shrieked from the floor. He was ignored.

"Well," Stan began lightly, "if you trimmed that, it'd look really nice, actually."

Gary laughed. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind."

"A Fu Manchu!" Kenny was dangerously close to dying of laughter, apparently.

"Come on in," the dark-haired boy said, rolling his eyes. "I missed you. It's great you're back. Moustache and all."

At that, Stan found himself being enveloped in a tight hug. "I missed you, too! And I'm glad to be back."

Behind the duo, Cartman made gagging noises, Kyle shushed him, and Kenny was suspiciously quiet. Stan took that as his cue to look back. "Goddammit," he groaned, stepping out of the hug but keeping his hands settled on Gary's waist.

"Aw, fuck, Gary killed Kenny."

"I  _what?_ "

"He died of laughter, the poor, stupid bastard," Cartman said with a slight shake of the head.

The room fell silent for all of six seconds, then Kyle spoke once more. "Who wants popcorn?"

"Ooh, I do!" Gary practically sang.

Stan smiled warmly at him. "Let's watch a movie, too."

"Stan, you hippie turd, please don't make out on the couch this time," Cartman grumbled as he sifted through the Marsh family DVD shelf.

"Can do," was the response, fully directed at the long blond moustache near his face.

Again, Gary laughed. "I get the point, Stan. I'll get rid of the facial hair."

"No, no…just the 'stache."

The sweet smile on the Mormon's face morphed into a smirk. "Fine, fine. Just the moustache."

Stan and Gary joined Cartman on the couch just in time for Kyle to come back into the room with a giant bowl of popcorn in his arms. "Hey, hey," the redhead said, "occupy laps, I need a place to sit."

Gary didn't need much incentive to move into Stan's lap, anyway, so he obeyed without protest. Stan's arms slid around his waist right on cue, and Kyle took his seat beside them.

The boys watched the movie that Cartman had put on in companionable silence, eating popcorn and dutifully ignoring their non-breathing friend on the floor.

It was a damned good reunion, Stan had to admit. Moustache and all.

 


End file.
